


be known in its aching (shown in the shaking)

by kamwashere



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coda, Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx Mixtape, Denial, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, I can't believe I just wrote that, Introspection, M/M, Not on my watch, Pining, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Praying to Castiel (Supernatural), Repressed Dean Winchester, Sam comforting Dean, Trauma, it's not unrequited, no beta we die like men, s15e19 prediction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27464851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamwashere/pseuds/kamwashere
Summary: Castiel is dead. Chuck has destroyed every world there is except this one. Jack is.. Jack. Everyone has disappeared into nothingness. All their friends are gone. Sam is still looking for something, anything that would help them. The world is ending, for real this time.And Dean? Well, Dean is enjoying a nice, classic BLT.-A fix-it fic for S15E18 - Despair, following Cas’ confession scene.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 232





	be known in its aching (shown in the shaking)

Castiel is dead. Chuck has destroyed every world there is except this one. Jack is.. Jack. Everyone has disappeared into nothingness and all their friends are gone. Sam is still looking for something, anything that would help them. The world is ending, for real this time.

And Dean? Well, Dean is enjoying a nice, classic BLT.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t see the point anymore. Why are they even trying to fight this? The world is always bound to end at some point. This was it. Why fight it? They had a good run, didn’t they? He figures he should spend his last days enjoying himself because he may not deserve it, but he desperately needs it right now.

The pantry seems to be replenished with food every time now, which they suspect is the work of Mrs. Butters. (Bless her soul.) Fruits, vegetables, pre-cooked meals, you name it. It’s a good thing because in this way they can track her; if her magic still works, then that means she’s still alive. Also hey, free food. It doesn’t mean this doesn’t make him weary, of course. One day, the food will stop coming and he would be left with another reminder that everyone is dying. For now, he’s slightly comforted by the fact that a friend is still out there somewhere. He doesn’t know how she does it but all he knows is that he can reheat any kind of pie he wants until the end of times. Which is now, he supposes. 

Food. One of the things he will miss the most in this world. It’s such a simple, basic pleasure yet it’s one of Dean’s favorite ways to indulge. He remembers dinners when he was younger and Sam was a baby. Mom wasn’t really the cook, but Dad was. He makes a mean plate of buffalo wings and ribs, and would often experiment with the food, like making a pizza out of just white bread, ketchup packets, string cheese, and mini pepperonis. He still did it even after Mom died, but it wasn’t the same without her making fun of it. 

Sam enters the room, holding an ancient-looking book just as Dean is in midbite. His younger brother rolls his eyes, but there’s something in his face that betrays the fact that he’s worried for him, and Dean knows it. Sometimes, it annoys him how much his brother knows him, how much he can see through him like cracks on a glass. He looks around a little distractedly, then asks, ‘Hey, you seen Cas around?’

Dean flinches, almost dropping his sandwich. Just hearing his name out loud is invoking flashes of the black sludge, of Death herself banging at their door, and the glassy blues of his eyes; all of these images unfurling in his mind’s eye. He tightens his jaw and shuts his eyes. He must have been too quiet for too long because Sam looks up at him in quiet worry. ‘Dean?’

‘He’s gone, Sammy.’

His brother blinks in confusion, ‘What do you mean  _ gone? _ ’

‘It means he’s never coming back.’ His voice is faint and weary, a far cry from the bitter, holy fury he usually has reserved when it comes to Cas. A chill runs down Sam’s back. So this is the reason why Dean has been acting disconnected these days. Somehow, he knows that something’s different this time; it sounds hopeless, final.

‘Dean—‘

Dean raises one hand, tilting his head away. ‘Please,’ he begs, voice strained. 

Sam inhales deeply and nods, even though his anxiety is getting the better of him. Losing Cas; it always brings something desolate out of Dean. His only fear is that this time, it might be permanent. But he shuts his mouth, because that’s what Dean wants. He would tell him when he’s ready. Hopefully, that would come first before their inevitable doom. 

Dean exits the room, leaving his food to go cold.

* * *

The Impala still looks the same even after almost five decades. 

It is a feat in itself to maintain this kind of vintage car, but he knows it’s different because it’s more than just a car. Dean cleans and polishes the 1967 Chevy Impala extra nice today, looking at her shiny, black coat with a nostalgic look on his face. He’s going to miss Baby so much. He recalls the times when this car was more than just a car. It was also a home. A friend. A defender. He has spent a good chunk of his life on the road and there’s still a part of him that is in utter disbelief that it’s over. Just like that. Blink and you’ll miss it. 

When he finishes, he stands back and just looks. This might be one of the last times he will ever get to do so. He takes a quick shower before rushing back to the garage, relieved that it was still there. That it didn’t snap out of existence like everything else did while he was gone. He gets on, enjoying the familiar creak when he opens the door. He takes a deep breath, the smell of leather filling up his nose. The rear view mirror glitters as he adjusts it. There’s nothing quite like it. 

He puts his hand on the steering wheel and squeezes, then leaning back to listen to the way the leather squeaks. Dean smiles slightly. Just being inside Baby is making him feel lighter, even for just a millimeter of a second. He turns the key to the ignition, and sighs at the way it purrs. He gets her out of the garage, mumbling a soft apology for leaving her cooped up for that long. Sometimes, he would talk to Baby as if she was a person because why not? He always felt like she was an entity of its own. She’s really more of a family member if he’s being more accurate. 

He soars through the long, long road, feeling comforted by the silence, save for the car producing a grumbling noise. He doesn’t really have a destination, he supposes. Sometimes a man just miss driving without the fear of something catching up on him. Just him with his arm leaning on the open window, and the other steadily handling the wheel. He briefly wonders if this is the last time he’ll ever get to ride her and he feels a deep ache settle inside his chest. Dean reaches for the music player and turns the radio on, couldn’t be bothered with choosing the song for himself. That was another thing he would miss; music. Over the years he has cultivated a taste in music that is so uniquely his own; be it classic rock or the occasional Swift. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it can get, he could rely on good ol’ Led Zep or Metallica. 

The song that was playing starts with a chorus of people rhythmically elongating the word  _ oh, _ then as it goes on the instrumental is added. Dean finds himself liking it, which is uncommon for he’s pretty sure this is a mainstream radio hit. The song tells the tale of a traveller, lost in his way, begging to turn the time back, lamenting for something that could have been. He finds himself haunted by it, and he betrays himself by remembering  _ their _ own first meeting. Dean was so hell-bent on hating whoever brought him back, but when he…

He shakes his head. Nothing good could ever come of it if he keeps doing this to himself. He’s gone. That will never change. (No matter how much he wishes it would. No matter how much he would give just for another second with him. The thought alone scared him because he realized that he would do  _ everything _ . Anything at all.)

When Dean goes back to the bunker, he is welcomed by the sight of Sam slouched over the long table, nose buried in a book, and surrounded by a mountain of books and manuscripts. He raises an eyebrow before striding towards him with a casual, ‘Hey.’

His brother looks up once, muttering, ‘Oh. Hey.’ He looks exhausted. There are dark circles under the eyes, and the ever-present lines on his forehead. Classic Sam. Always the one with the plan, with the Plan B, with the  _ there’s got to be another way, Dean.  _

But what happens if there’s truly no other way? Where do they go from here? 

‘Still looking, huh?’  Sam grunts, mouth pulled into a frown. Dean just sighs. ‘Sam—‘

‘Dean, stop. I know what you’re going to say.’ His brother looks up, snapping the book shut. His blue-green eyes are wide and alert, but also filled with uncertainty, with grief. 

He’s so caught up with his own stuff that he forgot that his little brother is mourning Eileen. He feels guilty for being selfish. So, he obediently shuts his mouth. But after a moment, he decides to open it again, ‘You need help?’

Sam narrows his eyes at him in confusion, ‘Really?’

‘Hey, I can be useful,’ He smiles, but it’s weak. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Actually, I was going to peruse through the bunker. There must be something here that we still haven’t found out about. I’ll take Dear Old Grandad’s stuff, you take Cas’. He might have something there.’

Dean’s ears ring, but he stays silent. He nods mutely. For Sam. He’s doing this for Sam.

* * *

_ He doesn’t want to fucking do this anymore _ is what he told himself the second the dark, wet Emptiness oozed out the rifts of the wall and took  _ him _ . Despite Dean’s hesitation and the voice in his head screaming at him to not go on, his feet drag him anyway to the hallway anyway, to the wooden door of  _ his _ room, just a few steps away from his own. Even though angels never really sleep, he still has a room of his own. (Dean doesn’t sleep anymore either. For when he closes his eyes, he sees his smile. Haunting him.) He doesn’t think  _ he _ actually stayed there for more than a couple of hours but sometimes, he would leave something behind. 

Dean draws his hand out to touch the doorknob, fighting off the trembling of his bones, and the clanging of his heart. He twists his hand and gently pushes the door open, trying not to break down right here, right at this moment. 

When he goes inside, it’s empty like the space beside where  _ he _ should be right now. It looks like any other room in the bunker, but there’s something in the air that just feels inexplicably  _ Cas _ . He doesn’t know how but he can almost smell his scent. Like lightning and the ocean waves. And maybe, if he listens hard enough, he could hear his voice. The deep, scratchy rumble of his that would sometimes appear in his dreams. Dean could feel him everywhere. 

And like a thread stretched too thin, like the wall on that damn dungeon, his resolve breaks. He closes the door and leans his back on it, feeling the all too familiar despair clawing at his poor, splintering heart. Sorrow; his oldest, truest friend. 

Whenever Cas would die, Dean would feel this indescribable emptiness, nothingness and now, he supposes it makes sense. It was Cas’ love, his longing that made him feel something, made him full. Now that he has allowed himself to finally think about it, the questions and the confusion comes in waves. He agonizes at how long he has been so Goddamn blind about it, at how long Cas has been keeping it all in, at how different everything would be, if circumstances had been different. If fate hadn’t been a cruel son of a bitch. 

Dean’s fingers caress the wood of his bed, and then he sees it. On the bedside table sits a lone mixtape. The one he gave to Cas. 

Dean’s knees almost buckle but he holds himself up. Trying (and failing) to blink the tears away, he reaches for the mixtape with a shaky hand. He tries to imagine Cas listening to it. Knowing what he knows now, he tries to imagine Cas, who is in love with him apparently, listening to the mixtape Dean gave him. What did Cas think about when he listened to it? Did he stare at the ceiling and think about him? 

He  _ never _ knew, never had an inkling. Everyone was right, though. The angels, the demons, their friends… hell, even monsters could tell. Everyone knew, but not Dean. Everyone knew that Castiel, an actual Angel from Heaven, has…  _ had _ so much love for a puny little human such as he. He wondered how that could be.

His mind, ever the cruel monster, remembers his farewell all of a sudden. How Cas’ eyes crinkled when he smiled. How he was determined to get those words out even if it would kill him, and it did kill him. How hauntingly blue his eyes were, looking at him, only him; the burnt and broken shell of man that he is. 

‘Fuck,’ Dean sobs and looks upwards, helpless. He still has tears left to cry, apparently. His grip tightens on the mixtape, bringing it closer to his chest, hugging it gently. Then, he closes his eyes and starts praying, like it's the only thing he could… he would ever do. 

‘Cas, I hope... I know you can hear me. I still believe you’re out there,’ He collapses on the floor, knees thudding on the floor. Pain blooms on his legs but it pales in comparison to what he’s feeling right about now. He clutches the mixtape.

‘Listen to me, I—I love you too, OK? You didn’t give me a chance to say it back, man,’ He tries to laugh but it comes out as a dry sob. ‘You were wrong, alright? You were wrong. It wasn’t because of me that you.. you learned to care. You’ve always cared, Cas. You’ve always had it in you. You said I was selfless. That I was loving,’ He pauses, clearing his throat. 

‘But what about you? You sacrificed yourself again and again for this world. You’re so full of love. And to have even an inch of that? I’m the luckiest bastard in this Goddamn world,’ He exhales out a shuddering sigh, 

‘Come back to me, Cas. Please. Not again. I don’t think I can do it this time.” Then Dean starts weeping again, whole body convulsing. He’s surprised that he still could.

* * *

Sam goes to the room to check on Dean’s progress, but instead finds him sitting on the floor, hunched over and sobbing, still holding the mixtape. He rushes to his brother immediately and places a hand on his back. He turns to him, his once-bright green eyes now dull with fresh tears and his chest, arms, and hands shivering. 

‘Sammy,’ he says brokenly and clings onto him like a child would, clutching him so tightly that his nails are digging painfully on his back. 

Sam is dumbstruck. Never in his life has he seen Dean like this, swept by complete and utter anguish. He wraps his arms on his older brother, sitting on the floor beside him and letting him wail and weep. Dean has been acting like there’s nothing wrong with their situation and he thinks something must have happened that reduced him to this state. He doesn’t know what had happened to Cas exactly, his brother had been unclear and vague on the details but it must be devastating that it made Dean break down like this in front of him. They weren’t usually the kind to always show their hearts on their sleeves. (God knows the amount of secrets and lies they have kept to each other.) But when things get Bad with a capital B, they would talk and yes, sometimes cry. But Dean usually brushes it off as a temporary slip, ever the eternally repressed jerk that he knows and loves. 

But this? This is the rawest he has ever seen Dean. Sam tries to rub his hand on his back, whispering consoling words to him, comforting him the only way he knows how. But the way his loud bawls and whimpers echo and bounce off the walls breaks his fucking heart. He can’t help but to let a few tears fall of his own.

They stay like that for a couple of minutes until Dean has finally calmed down, his sobs slowly dwindling to inaudible hiccups. Gently, he taps him on the shoulder, ‘Dean?’

‘I didn’t get to tell him.’ Dean croaks out, voice hoarse with overuse. He unlatches himself from Sam’s arms.

‘What?’ 

‘Sam, he’s gone and I didn’t get to say it. Fucking timing.’ The frailty of his tone undermines the true ire he must be feeling. It seems that all he can do is to shake his head, and to rest his forehead on the palm of hand, looking utterly and indubitably defeated. 

‘Dean,’ The younger brother’s voice is mild but firm, hurried. He has to know. ‘What really happened to Cas?’

He launches into a short, impassionate explanation of what went down, only pausing with barely restrained hurt when it came to the part where Cas… where Cas had sacrificed himself without a single thought of himself. Sam takes a minute to soak it all in, to spare a thought for Cas, who—ever since rescuing Dean from hell—has done nothing but help them and humanity, upholding his duty to protect his Father’s Creation. And yeah, he might have stumbled and messed up a few times, but who’s perfect? He dissented from Heaven, and from his own family, and chose to become a renegade, warrior angel. Cas has his own life, his own purpose reevaluated and even, his faith wavered. Well, not really wavered, just repurposed. Shifted. Transformed. ‘Sounds like something Cas would do.’ 

‘He said he loved me.’

A poignant silence. Dean looks at Sam, and is surprised when he sees that Sam doesn’t even look shocked. ‘Again, it sounds like the Cas I know.’ 

‘You knew.’ His tone is not accusing but he fixes Sam with a look even he can’t recognize. But if he has to guess, he would call it a look of mixed disappointment, regret, and all the things in between. He can’t imagine how his brother must have been feeling right now; finding out that his best friend has made a deal with some dark entity in exchange for Jack’s life, confessed to a decade long of love and pining, and died in the span of five seconds. All of this while Billie was trying to kill them. 

‘Of course,’ Sam smiles sadly. ‘Dean, everyone who isn’t blind can see. Hell, if I know someone who is, they would probably know right away.’ 

‘Why the fuck am I the last one to know, then?’ 

‘Dean, you’ve always known it.’ He says gently, as if he’s delivering a bad news and he’s afraid of how Dean would react, which is painfully ironic given their situation.

He’s right, Dean realizes. He just didn't want to believe it was true because he’s been burned before. He tried. God knows he tried; a home with 2.5 kids and a white picket-fence, with Lisa and Ben. But obviously, it did not work out. He’s left with this chilling realization that it will never work out, not when he’s himself, not with this line of work, not in this lifetime. 

It isn’t that he never wanted that with Cas. For fuck’s sake, he  _ dreamed _ of it even. It’s just that there was never any good time to explore that path with him. He’s so sure it would only end in heartbreak and he can’t bear that, not with Cas. No matter how worse it got for them. But now that he heard him say those words, nothing fucking matters. All that matters is…

‘We’ve got to get him back, Sam,’ he blurts out.

‘What?’ 

‘Cas. He’s in.. he’s in the Empty, right?’ He stands up, standing with so much purpose, so much fire. 

‘What about—‘

‘I have to go get him,’ Dean seems to look around, looking for answers in the walls. Then his head snaps back to him, snapping his fingers. ‘Jack. He knows about the deal. He must know something.’ There’s a glazed look in his eyes, and Sam knows this is not a battle he can win. Nothing could talk Dean out of this, not even him. Not when it comes to Cas. So, like a good brother that he is, he slaps his back firmly, hoping that he could communicate it through him that— _ yes, I’m by your side.  _

Meanwhile, Dean’s head is swimming, astonished that he’s still standing straight despite the vertigo he’s feeling. He can afford to be selfish, right? He can think of his happiness first, right? Before the world? In his mind, he thinks of a prayer, to Cas, to anyone who might be listening.  _ Just one time. Please, just this one time. I won’t ask for anything again. _

Dean gently places the mixtape on the table. Cas would want it back when he comes back. 

He turns to Sam with a persistent look on his face and a love that demands to be spoken out loud, ‘Let’s go, Sam. We’ve got work to do.’

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title is from wasteland, baby! by hozier
> 
> come scream about destiel with me on [tumblr!](https://kamwashere.tumblr.com)
> 
> .
> 
> SO UHHH.... CANON DESTIEL HUH,,,,,,,,.....
> 
> i'm like 94% convinced i'm still dreaming like holy shit this can't be real. i can't stop thinking about them so i know i just had to write something. i hope y'all liked it!! i guess this is kind of my prediction for ep19 as well shdfgshgd would love to know what are y'alls prediction are. 
> 
> personally i still believe that cas is coming back. i've clowned for years, i'm not gonna stop now.
> 
> leave a kudos/comment if you liked this! thank you for reading!
> 
> ANYWAYS DEANCAS ENDGAME BABEY!!!!!


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